The Girl in the Mirror(3)

I step up to my role now. I hang Adam’s shirt back on the rack and smooth it into place. No one could tell it’s been touched. “An international hospital sounds good,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “They’ve been so kind to us here.”

“That’s good, and it’s good that you’ve rung me,” I reply. I say “good” like it’s a mantra, calming Summer. “Of course I can help. So you haven’t told Annabeth yet?”

“I couldn’t . . .” Summer’s voice quavers again.

“I can tell her. She can fly up to Phuket today. I don’t mind taking over the house-sitting for a few days.”

No response.

“For as long as you and Adam need it,” I add generously.

“No, no, Iris, we need you, not Mum.”

My head buzzes. Summer needs me. Adam needs me. But why? I’m no good with babies. Tarquin already has both his parents. The only parents he knows, anyway. What do they need me for?

I picture myself in Thailand, swanning around the Royal Phuket Marina with its flotilla of superyachts, drinking cocktails. Strong ones, not the virgin cocktails Dad bought us when we were kids. Surely not all those millionaire yachties want Thai girlfriends. Some of them must prefer blondes.

But what am I thinking? Tarquin is ill. It sounds like his penis is rotting off. There’ll be no time for drinking and flirting. Surely.

“We’re in a serious bind, Iris, and we can’t tell just anybody about it. Only people we trust one hundred percent.” Summer pauses.

“Well, obviously you can tell me,” I say.

“Of course,” says Summer. “I’m just saying, you must keep this a secret. The thing is, our import permit for Bathsheba has expired. We’ve already checked her out of Thailand. We were ready to go, but the beaches are so beautiful here. We thought we could spend another couple of weeks in a quiet anchorage and no one would know. We never imagined Tarquin would get sick. It’s terrible timing. If customs find Bathsheba’s still in Thailand, they’ll seize her. The people here are lovely, but there’s so much corruption.”

Summer makes it sound as though corruption is some affliction, like malaria, that the poor Thais suffer through no fault of their own. But I’m too keen to hear more to quibble with her.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Oh, Twinnie, I don’t know how to ask you such a huge favor. Adam’s a good sailor, but he’s barely been out of sight of land. You know how hard it is on the open sea. It’s a long passage to the Seychelles, at least a fortnight, and the end of the season is near. The typhoons start in April, but we can’t wait till April anyway. We need to get Bathsheba out of Thailand now. And you were always such a great sailor, Iris. We’ll pay your plane fares, of course, and Adam says you can stand whichever watches you want.”

As Summer speaks, I step back into her bedroom and approach the bay window. The water glitters far below, swirling around sun-bleached rocks. I can’t let myself believe Summer’s words. They’re too good to be true. I’ve melted through the glass, and I’m flying over the ocean, turning a joyous shade of aquamarine.

Adam’s speaking in the background now. Has he been listening all along? “Tell her I’ll do all the night watches,” he says, in that deep voice flecked with the cadence of the Seychelles. His voice goes on more quietly. I hold the phone close to my ear and shut my eyes, straining to hear.

“Believe it or not, Iris likes sailing at night,” Summer says. When she speaks to Adam, her voice becomes playful, smooth, liquid. No wonder I can barely stand to be in the same room as my sister and her husband.

But it seems I wouldn’t have to spend much time with the two of them. The plan seems to be that Summer will stay in Phuket with Tarquin and his festering genitalia, and I will leave behind my failed job, failed marriage, and failed life, and sail across the Indian Ocean on the yacht I have loved since childhood. And who will go with me? My brother-in-law, the wealthy, handsome, charismatic Adam Romain.

I imagine sailing into the Seychelles, a dream country of coconut palms and halcyon beaches, but I’m not a mere tourist, because my husband is a local, so in a way, it’s a homecoming.

Well, not husband in my case. Brother-in-law. But still.

“Of course I want to help,” I say, “but I have a lot of job interviews lined up.” This isn’t true; I haven’t started looking yet. I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain to prospective employers why I walked out on my last job. “And I have a lot of bills.”

Summer’s voice when it comes back is quieter. “We’ll cover everything,” she says. “Plane fares, debts you need paid, anything you need. I’m sorry, Iris. I know things have been hard for you with Noah leaving. I know it isn’t fair to ask. If I wasn’t desperate. If we weren’t desperate . . .”

It’s not often that Summer’s in need. All our life, she’s been content with what she has, happy with her lot. As anyone would be who had Summer’s lot. But I can’t bear to stretch it out. She sounds truly unhappy—and in a moment, she might think of someone else to ask.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll do it for you, Twinnie.”

Summer squeals down the phone.



In a few minutes, everything is planned. Adam has found a direct flight on his smartphone. I’ll leave Wakefield this morning. I have an hour to pack and to tell our mother before I head to the airport. I’ll be in Phuket by this evening. I’ll be on Bathsheba.